Naru comes into the hangar towards the ship, staggering a little, fresh off of losing some money surely. She pause to glance at the Gamorean, "Don't waste your time with him, honey, you don't have enough hair for that one." She motions at Grey as she begins to carefully make her way up the ramp in shoes so tall it is a wonder she can walk at all in them in her state.

Naru snickers than outright laughs as she stops to lean on a wall and not fall over. "Hey honey, I'm Naru. The Cap'n is the duros. I just call him Tag, but you should butter him up as Cap'n Fandarini. He's probably in the lounge or the cockpit, They are both on deck two, c'mon." She looks over the armor, "Do you think I could pull off the armor look?" she looks down at her slinky evening gown, "Probably not," she shrugs.

For the first time ever Dorat felt strange about the grease stains on his overalls. Which was strange because mere moments before they hadn't mattered to him at all. Then the tusky green beauty walked into the common room and said something to him he didn't understand. He wasn't used to that at all. He spoke most of the necessary languages. He'd never needed to speak Gammorean because he'd never met a Gammorean. Sure he'd seen pictures but he never thought he'd be so lucky as to actually meet one, now here she was a vision in armor standing on his ship giving him a bewildered look.

"I'm Dorat!" He said entirely too enthusiastically. He swallowed hard and then said "Yep, that's me. Dorat." He attempted to lean back in his chair seductively but wobbled and nearly fell being saved only by clutching at the table. He laughed awkwardly and tried to think of something else to say but she shook her head and left the room.

Grey uses his considerable slicing expertise to create competent copies of the schematics, their unlock key, and complementary fakes that would fool his own mother (if she were into that sort of thing). Interpreting the the core logistics, Grey discovers that it's divided into two distinct sections, a higher, superseding, set, which even he couldn't decrypt, and a lower operating set; a seemingly infantile section of code which only really provided the groundwork for resolving simple mathematics, and more so, seemed prone to errors and falling into loops. Looking at the code more closely, Grey discovers sub-functions which allow the existing code to rewrite and compile itself on the fly, essentially also giving the core the ability to write itself out of loops. Furthermore, the schematics mandate that the code be transcribed into a high-capacity memory unit, much larger than the miniscule amount of data actually requires, implying that it is somehow intended to grow itself into the provided space.

Between the last job and this one, the Express spent a little time flying around on minor errands. One took them to Mon Gaza, where Tag had a little side job of his own to accomplish.

Tag walks down the street. It's pretty late, meaning that this section of town is pretty empty: most of the day shift is gone, and the evening shift is already well-situated at their factory posts. There's not a lot to do around here besides work in refineries or visit the offices of the same, and nobody really wants to do that unless they have to. The smell of spice pervades the air as the last rays of Mon Gaza's star peek over the far-away ridge.

The Duros inhales deeply, then blows out a breath. The place he's looking for is on this street--in fact, it's only two buildings down. Rynah's sent him to discuss some troubling news regarding this refinery's loyalties, as Tag is the one who does most of the somewhat criminal dealings these days. He smiles: So much for lack of stereotyping in the new Rebellion. Tatooine boy mentions that he's got a few smuggler connections, and suddenly everyone just assumes he's a big-time criminal.

The place he wants is called Drixil and Ligf. It's a dirty place, definitely a little the worse for wear. Drixil and Ligf clearly aren't taking too good care of it. Tagrin looks down at his datapad; apparently, Drixil's the problem child here. Ligf more or less blows with the wind, and the wind comes from Drixil at the moment. He nods, and pushes through the door.

The offices of Drixil and Ligf are not any better kept inside than out. "Shabby" is a good word; it looks like no one's bothered cleaning the walls in some time. On Mon Gaza, that means that everything is stained a dusky red. Datacards are scattered on every available surface, and it looks like more than one piece of machinery has been left to die in here. Two beings are in here: a Toydarian and a Sullustan. Drixil and Ligf. Tagrin nods again as both rise to their feet. The Toydarian--Drixil--opens his mouth as if to say something.

Tagrin blows his head open.

Ligf stumbles backwards, nearly falling across his desk. Tagrin helps him along by jamming the barrels of his double-barreled blaster under the Sullustan's throat. Sweat pours across Ligf's face as Tagrin leans in toward him, toothy smile in place. "Do you know who I am?"

The Sullustan makes a few gulping sounds. Tag eases off the pressure on his neck. "You're... you're the one from the Express."

"Tagrin."

"Tagrin, sure." Ligf looks back and forth, clearly wondering if he's got the right answers so far.

"Don't even bother; the authorities down here are pretty easy to bribe." Tag's still smiling. "You know, I'm not surprised you don't know me. I mean, look at the rest of us! One of the last Jedi in the galaxy, the winner of the biggest tournament sabaac tournament ever, the Wookiee that scared off a rancor, the mechanic that can make a ship just disappear." He leans back in; Ligf hacks a few times. "And me. The boring old boy from Tatooine. Never done anything exciting; just flies the ship when the gambler isn't. Why, he was the mayor back in Tatooine! Sure means a lot out here with the rest of them, doesn't it?"

Ligf gurgles.

"I'm going to take that as a 'no,' which is the right answer. No, it doesn't, not that any of them know how kriffing hard it is to be a mayor on a planet like Tatooine." Tag sniffs. "But you might be wondering what this has to do with you."

Ligf nods enthusiastically. Tagrin cuffs him.

"What it has to do with you is the Rebellion. Drixil wasn't giving us good info any more. He was playing at double agent, and playing it badly. And y'know what? All that Tatooine mayoring, it means I'm kind of used to the spice trade. Know a few people, own a few people. So here's how it is: you work with us now. You pass info to the Rebellion, you pass spice to my traders. If you don't, I come back here and find out why. Sound good?"

Ligf makes a muffled squeak. Tagrin shakes his head.

'See, Ligf, I don't care what that one meant. You don't have a choice." He leans back, putting his blaster over his shoulder; Ligf gasps for air. "I'm gonna be going now. You play your cards right, you won't ever see me again." He's still grinning, and this time he winks. Ligf shudders, and Tag pushes out the door.

It wasn't wrong, Tag thinks to himself as he walks back towards the Bowtie. The others really do get all the fame and glory. Still, it was nice to know that there were one or two circles where he was still king of the hill.

The room was sparsely appointed and just big enough for one man to live comfortably. A single desk sat against the far wall, beneath a viewport looking out over the stars. A bed folded neatly into the wall, giving some more room during the daytime, while the closet and dresser were secreted behind other sections of wall. The room had no decorations except for a single item on the desk- a metallic ball the size of a fist.

The old man, his sparse hair is still uncombed and still refusing to wear the robes of the Jedi, sat quietly. He rolled a metal cylinder back and forth across the surface of desk several times, his lightsaber. He hadn't used the weapon in years, and still found little love for activating it. His eyes moved to the metal ball, and he recalled the last time he used the lightsaber in combat.

An hour or two passes while he waited, the patience of a Jedi Master allowing the time to pass effortlessly.

Eventually his hand drifted over to the metal ball. The ball had a number of uses, at least six that he knows of, plus he believed there were at least two more he has not discovered yet. One use, recording, was the first he discovered and the one he was most intimately familiar with. He reached out with the Force and felt the ball generally resist. He knew the secret, though, and the cracks in the shell he needed to touch. With that light touch, he opened the ball. The holos started flickering immediately.

The first few holos went through two young men, similar in appearance and stature, training at a Jedi Temple. Most of the holos were of them competing in various exercises, and generally the exercises end with either no clear winner, or both simply being exhausted. The young men were ridiculously evenly matched.

The final holo is much longer than the rest. It begins with a lightsaber duel, and the two warriors stick to tried and true forms and positions as they fight. Soon, though, the fight begins to escalate. The combatants begin using bits and pieces of the surroundings. At first a book tossed towards the face, or a chair moved to block a path. From there, the battle grows more intense and even recording mechanism has a hard time tracking everything. Debris is thrown and countered, destroyed and reconstituted as the duel moves rapidly about the area. Acrobatic lunges are countered by blinding movement, countered by force pushes and pulls, and all the while the holo records the moves.

For fifteen minutes the holo records the battle. The ending comes swiftly and unexpectedly, and the holo doesn't manage to record what happens. Instead, the feed goes to static for a moment, and then focuses back in with one of the men standing over the other, his sword at the throat of the prostate man. The two men smile, though even on the holo the prostate man's smile looks a bit forced. They clasp hands and the victor aids his fallen foe in rising. The holo ends with them walking away.

A Conversation

"You can't save them all," the voice said behind him. A soft glow now filled the room as the ghostly form came around beside the desk, and took a seat as if it were real. "Some people have simply moved beyond redemption."

"I don't believe that, and neither do you. Anakin was saved." It probably said something of Rynah that he used the Jedi name instead of the name everyone knew- Vader.

The force ghost nodded in agreement, but then countered, "Arsaec isn't your father."

The old man looked over at the ghostly form, still shrouded in Jedi robes and eyes hidden behind the dark hood. "Neither are you, my blood comes from the other twin."

The force ghost smiled for a moment, and then faded from the room. Alone in the dark, the old man closed up the metal ball, the holos fading back into memory.

"I am offering an enhanced reward of a quarter million credits for Greykabukk the Wookiee. A half a million for the gambler Naru, the sabaac tournament winner."

The two warriors watching the holo took a moment to look at each other as the message ended.

The Wookiee was exceptionally tall and lanky, but unusually for the species, his hair was cut fairly short across his entire body- barely more than a centimeter. He would explain, if asked, that he cut his hair to better accommodate wearing his armor. The armor, dark grey in color, was custom designed and looked like a cross between Mandalorian and Stormtrooper armors. It didn't look Mandalorian enough to earn their ire, and it didn't look Stormtrooper enough to earn the Empire's ire.

His companion, however, was Mandalorian through and through. Her armor was a modern design, dark green in color, and fitted to look the part. Various weapons were integrated into the armor, and a bandoleer was filled with everything from explosives to lock picking tools. She was fully equipped for any situation, just as a Mandalorian should be. She had her helmet off at the moment, her dark skin visible for a rare moment and her long black hair tied back in a ponytail.

The two might be misfits if they didn’t also happen to be entirely successful bounty hunters.

The Wookiee was named Quagvyuwa, a name barely pronounceable in the Basic language. He usually went by Quag or Kwagg, both names pronounced a little bit different. He had been a bounty hunter for almost 30 years now, an eternity for the more short-lived humans of the galaxy, but not so much for the century-old Wookiee.

The Mandalorian's name was Sinlyn Lev. For the past 10 years, she had accompanied Quag, joining him on her 17th birthday. Few knew the path through time her name took- she was the granddaughter of Mirta Gev, descended from Boba Fett himself. But while her lineage conjured up images, she did not. To but a select few, she was just another Mandalorian bounty hunter out trying to earn credits.

If someone listed all the bounty hunters in the galaxy, the names Quag and Sinly Lev would be near the bottom. It wasn't that they were bad, far from it in fact. They simply were exceptionally low-key and shunned fame, and that discretion made them invaluable hunters. The people that hired them wanted discretion as well.

The bounty that just came in was a perfect example- the offer wasn't from Dreego or anyone of the other people with obvious beefs (and existing bounties) on the crew of the Midnight Express. This offer was from someone who probably wanted the two dead, and wanted the pleasure of doing it themselves. They had no desire for the crew to know the bounty was out there, so it was transmitted to a select few bounty hunters. No more than 5 or 6 had received that message.

"Well, Quag, a quarter million is a lot of credits."

The Wookiee nodded and said nothing, but took a moment to replay the message.

"I am offering an enhanced reward of a quarter million credits for Greykabukk the Wookiee. A half a million for the gambler Naru, the sabaac tournament winner."